


To avoid yesterday's dance

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Awesome Karen Page, Being forced to fight and/or be a soldier counts as child abuse, Blind Character, But like not intentionaly, Canon Disabled Character, Child Soldiers, Foggy Nelson & Karen Page Friendship, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Foggy nelsons family mentioned, Gen, He just doesnt know how to be a normal person, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hydra, I mean its HYDRA do you expect anything else?, Karen Page Knows Matt is Daredevil, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt has issues, Matt never went to Columbia, Past Child Abuse, Past child experimentation, Right?, SHIELD, Stick is also mentioned, The Avengers - Freeform, The abuse and experimentation isnt graphic and its more hinted at, kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-09 00:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10399965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Foggy Nelson, a small lawyer for a firm that he hates, does not expect to find a man bleeding out in a dumpster. He didn't expect to take the man home and help him as much as he could. He didn't expect for the man he had helped to be a blind ninjas assassin that was on the run.This was really more of an avengers problem, not something for a lawyer like him.





	1. We've made it this far, kid

Noise. He was no longer to make out individual sounds, yet the screams and pleas of the people around him where as clear as anything. The noise surrounded him, suffocating him in the buzz of it all. He could hear a woman screaming for someone to help, for someone to call the police. He could hear a man telling his children not to look, to carry on walking, so that they don't have to see what was going on - so that they wouldn't be traumatised by the sight that lay in the dingy ally that lead onto a small street.

It all sounded more like buzzing to him, painful to both his ears and his head. He could distantly hear someone screaming, but it sounded distorted like the person was underwater, a stark contrast to both the buzzing in his head and the unbearably clear screams of the civilians that had began to swarm the scene. He knew that wasn't possible, the child couldn't be underwater, they where on land he could feel the hard concrete ground beneath his jeans and the salty tears pouring down his face - a sharp contrast to the far too hot air that surrounded him.

He moved his hands, curling his fingers in and out of a fist, whilst trying to ignore the multiple layers of blood that coated them. Some had dried, most hadn't and the dried layer started to peal of in flakes, it felt disgusting. He was lucky he didn't throw up, it would only make his surrounding that much worse. He didn't want to deal with ear-splitting sound, the feeling of blood in his sensitive hands and the stench of vomit on the ground beside him.

The noise had started to die down, but so had the thump-thump of the heart beat of the man that lay below him. The woman was no longer shouting, and he could faintly hear sirens so someone must have called the police. He couldn't bring himself to be hopeful, the man bleeding out below him probably wouldn't make it. His breathing was already dangerously non-existent. The man probably wouldn't last another minute.

He finally realised that the kid screaming - the one that sounded underwater - was him. He stopped almost immediately as the man under him had stopped breathing and his screaming was replaced with broken sobs. He blindly flung his arm out, searching for his cane - his dad had told him that it was mainly white but it had a red and a black stripe, a few days ago when he had asked.

He sobbed harder after thinking about his dad, about how he wouldn't get to see him again because his heart stopped and everyone was to late to save him.

His cried where those of a broken child for that was exactly what he was, his father was the only thing to ground him to reality, he was the only thing he had after the accident a few months ago, the only consistent thing when his entire world had changed and he had to re-learn everything he had been taught. But he was gone, dead, and he wouldn't be able to hear him walk of groan in pain after a particularly bad fight. He wouldn't be able to listen to his dads heart beat as the noises from the world grew to be too much.

His hand finally grabbed his cane, his palm was slightly sore from rubbing against the concrete floor, and adjusted his glasses. He felt someone walking towards him before they kneeling down.

"I need you to step away from the body, chum. Okay?" The officer - he could hear the gun in its holster and feel the air of authority the man emitted - said condescendingly. He just nodded and started tapping his cane on the ground, and walking towards the other officers. He didn't want to talk to this person, not after his dad had just died. He didn't want to be treated like a baby, he didn't really want anyone to talk to him.

One of the officers put a blanket around his shoulders, she was nice and didn't speak to him like an idiot. The blanket was warm and it didn't feel scratchy against his skin the one he had at home did, like most things did. He lay his cane by his feet and took of his glasses, they where starting to hurt his ears as he still wasn't used to them, and tried to answer the paramedics questions - "Yes, I'm blind," and "No, I'm not allergic to any medicine... that I know of," - whilst trying to remain as silent as possible, hoping that he would wake up and everything since the accident was a dream. He prayed to a God, that he wasn't sure he believed in because why would He kill his father?, that he would wake up and be able to see his bedroom roof and be unable to hear his neighbours whispering to each other about debts, unable to hear the little girl three blocks down cry herself to sleep or smell the disgusting scent of the city.

But when he opened his eyes all he saw was his - now - normal 'world on fire' vision, where he could see shapes but was lost when it came to details, appearances, or even what the shape was. His vision, but it wasn't really vision because he couldn't see he could only map his surroundings out in his head due to his other senses, was only 60% reliable and he sometimes found himself walking into trees when he tried to rely on it. 

He still heard everything, smelt everything - someone three blocks away burnt their pizza and a kid a few houses down was talking to her cat, telling it about her day - and he knew that it wasn't a dream, not matter how much he wished it was. His dad was dead and he had no other family, he would definitely be sent to an orphanage and everything would be so loud their with other kids always around. School was hard enough when he was only around other kids for a few hours, he doesn't want to think about being around them all day, every day. He would hear their heart beats, their breathing and the pounding of their feet against worn wooden floor. He would over hear every conversation, smell the scent of everyone - especially the (pre)teens that hardly washed themselves - and everything. He knew that it would soon become overwhelming. But he wasn't an idiot, he would be sent there to live with the nuns and loads of other children like his dad would've wanted him to, and he would try to make it work because he was not going to fail his father just after his death.

So when the paramedics stopped their questioning, and the police started theirs, he knew what was coming. That dreaded sentence that would condemn him to his own personal hell:

"Hey, where going to go to your house and pick up your things before taken to the orphanage, Saint Agnes. Okay?" the same officer from before asked him in the same condescending tone. He hated that tone, he hated the police officer and he knew it was wrong but he couldn't bring himself to care. The officer was being a slight inconvenience and so he projected all of his issues onto the being annoying him. It was just unfortunate that he had alot of issues.

He didn't feel like answering the officers question, verbally at least, instead he nodded his head, put on his glasses and picked his cane up. The officer took his small, thin, elbow in his rough hands, the man made sure that he didn't press on his elbow too hard - he was grateful for that - before leading him to a police car.

The car ride was boring, and filled with a not quite silence. Nothing was silent since the accident, there was always a thump-thump of someone's heart or the swish of someone's hair or the faint sound of their breathing. He was used to it now, it was as close to silence as he would get, and he was always the kind of child that took whatever they could get. The loudness of the city was slightly cancelled out by the doors of the car - even if it only kept everything that little more muffled, that little less painful for his constantly pounding head. He was once again thankful for small mercies.

When they reached his dads little apartment everything seemed to be too quiet, as if the world didn't want to intrude on what was about to happen. He was thankful for the silence, nearly proper silence, as he walked into his tiny home to pack his things. He didn't take much, only some spare clothes, all of his brail books - he only had teo or three, they coukdnt afford anymore - and his dads fighting clothes. He didn't want anything else, didn't need it. Pictures where useless to him, and the house seemed to be suffocating him, he couldn't stay for longer than he needed to.

The ever present noise, the buzz behind his useless eyes, returned when he stepped outside and he didn't know if he resented the noise or loved it. It was weird without it, felt weird being able to think without a constant pain behind his eyes and in his head. Yet, he didn't like it very much, it reminded him of before, before his dads death only moments - or perhaps it was hours? - ago and before the accident.

He got back into the police car and prepared himself for going to an orphanage. Of course life didn't want to be even remotely kind and instead of going to an orphanage the condescending police officer drove in the opposite direction whilst placing a communication device in his ear - he could hear the slight buzz of it turning on. The man started to speak, he lost his condescending tone and he was definitely not a police officer. 

Fear kept his small, weak, body frozen as he listened in on the conversation that was happening over the com.

"Report," a nasally voice barked from the other end of his kidnappers call.

"I have a kid, his dad has died and he has no other family. No one will look for him for long," his kidnapper said and he felt goose-bumps crawl up his arms. Terror struck him, making the fear he previously felt seem laughable, and he squeezed his eyes shut - a reflex from when he could sill see, that was useless now.

"Excellent then," the voice said once again and he really wished that he new someone's name.

"Not quiet, the kid is blind -" the man over the phone was about to interrupt but his kidnapper rushed into an explanation "- but the kid can see better with his other senses than anyone we know of can! He managed to, to, sense me walking up to him before I had taken my first step!"

"If this does not work out, you will not be able to fail me - or anyone - again. Is that understood?" the nasally man growled, suddenly sounding a lot more intimidating. 

He shrunk in on himself, hugging his knees close to his chest.

"Yes sir, understood sir," the man on his side of the phone said - voice trembling slightly and his heart rate sped up. He was obviously afraid of the other man and he did not want to find out why.

 

He woke up with a gasp, pressing his hand to his head in a useless attempt to remember what he was sure to be a memory of before he was taken, but he also wasn't certain that there was a before. He could only remember the loud voices of people barking orders, the harsh sound of air as he was trained to kill, the pain of the experiments that they conducted on him. How could there be a life before all of that? They, the scientists and soldiers, told him that there wasn't that he was born in their base, but why did he remember having a name, a family, a life, beyond the walls that trapped him. Even if he didn't remember anything about that life, the one he was so sure was real.

He shrugged it off, getting off of his small bunk, and started getting ready for his day. He showered, brushed his teeth, and get dressed in his training outfit. He strolled around his tiny, box like, room that he was told was white. He suspected that they where trying 'white-torture' or isolation, which he didn't understand because he could hear everything outside his walls and listened to them. That was exactly what he did when he wasn't in the room, so it wasn't like it affected him much. He once again shrugged it off, he couldn't afford to be distracted. Not that morning, nor any moment after that. He hadn't survived the ruthless treatment he received by being distracted and caught up in his own head. That could be saved for when he was free.

The door creaked open and he walked over to his door, standing face-to-face with his personal escort. He could faintly recall a name, Scott, but he wasn't sure if the name actually did belong to the short yet muscular man in front of him. It didn't matter anyway, he didn't intend to be in the company of the man for longer than necessary. Taking a single step outside of his room - or rather his cell, it seemed much more fitting - he paused briefly, waiting for his escort to lead him down the twists and turns that he had memorised years ago. His commanders knew that he knew his way around the base but they didn't trust him after the stunt he pulled three years before hand - that was his first attempt at escape since he had hit teenhood. He understood why they no longer trusted him, he no longer trusted himself, due to the fact that he had proved himself loyal to them over and over before his betrayal.

He didn't care what they thought, as was evident when he quickly (and effortlessly) knocked his escort unconscious - he was a decent guy, compared to others at least, and he really didn't want more blood on his hands. He grabbed the bad his escort always had with him, he would travel to his own training room before going to pick up his charge after training.

Running down the corridor, he paused only to knock out a patrolling guard and steal his outfit and his weapons - both would help him in his escape. Changing quickly, he stuffed his 'combat' (or rather training) gear into the long bag. He turned a corner and waved at the guard he could sense coming his way before making his way out of the twisting corridors and into the long straight hallways that would lead to the exit. He stuck to the shadows, as much as possible, and tried to avoid killing anyone - which he mostly succeeded in until he stumbles upon a scientist that was particularly cruel with his experiments on him when he was a child and broke his neck in his rage.

After what felt like forever, but was in fact only a matter of hours, he reached an exit which he promptly swung open and disposed of the security jacket he was wearing - it was too obvious where it came from - and silently thanked anyone above that he had chosen to take the guards t-shirt. He would've looked terribly weird walking around in his training gear after coming out of a - presumably - dark ally. Not that he didn't already look weird, glassy eyed, bleeding and stumbling around as he was.

The ally had smelt horrible - rotten food from the bins mixed with the sewage of the city - and was pleasantly surprised that the rest of where-ever-he-was didn't smell the same way.

He walked out of the ally hearing civilisation for the first time, in what he was lead to believe, in his life. 

He walked for what felt like hours, but was probably only ten or twenty minutes, before stumbling into another ally. He carefully dropped his bag into a dumpster before pulling himself in afterwards, he couldn't remain in plain sight they would notice he was gone soon.


	2. I am not as fine as I seem

It was a surprisingly nice night in Hells Kitchen, well if nice is 'not as cold as usual' or 'warm enough to avoid the really bad woolly hats that Foggy had a collection of' and Franklin "Foggy" Nelson had decided to take the longer way back to his apartment in order to avoid seeing any of his co-workers on his way home. Whilst he was glad he had made this decision, the lawyers at Landman and Zack where awful company (in fact Foggy would say they where nearly as bad as the firm itself, if not worse because they made up the firm), he did not expect to stumble across a man bleeding into his apartments - and the other apartments in the complex, his was just the most important - dumpster, that would certainly be a tale for the bin-men to tell their family or friends "Aye, there was this one bin that was covered in blood! I swear, actual human blood!", something he wouldn't have to walk past if he walked his usual route. Therefore avoiding meeting the man in the dumpster - which would've been an even more interesting tale - and not involving himself with injured people that hung around in the trash. If he had known this information before taking the longer way, he probably still would've taken the same route because, as mentioned, his co-workers where dicks - Richard was the worst, which Foggy found hilarious considering his name is commonly shortened to match his personality, something he takes ever chance he can to remind Richard of, much to the lawyers displeasure.

Breathing out a sight in exasperation and slight annoyance, he was a lawyer not someone who should have to deal with people who decide to bleed into his - or any - dumpster, he started to pull the man out. He heard the unbearable noise that fabric makes when tearing and reluctantly peaked inside the trash - and man - filled bin. After realising it was only the bottom of the mans trousers that tore - and untangling them - he finished pulling him out of the dumpster. Pausing for breath, Foggy dropped the taller man (gently) onto the floor. He stood there for a few seconds, looking like an idiot and a criminal with an unconscious man laying at his feet, before reluctantly rolling his suits sleeves up and sticking his hand into the pile of trash, and quickly grabbed the bag that had lay beside the man. He immediately wiped his hands on the wall before putting one of the dumpster-mans arms around his shoulder - the shoulder that didn't have the bag strap on it - and started slowly making his way into the apartment complex.

Foggy had never been happier about the fact that the complex he live in had a lift. He practically ran - or, rather, shuffled at a quicker pace - towards it before leaning hi guest against the wall and pushing the button to go to the second floor. He had also never been happier about the fact that everyone in his apartment complex was either old, worked early or worked incredibly late, because it meant that no one would see him dragging a bleeding man into his apartment and call the police on him, and despite the fact that it would probably be better for the injured man he really didn't feel like explaining to the police about why he was dragging an injured man into his apartment. Especially since Brett would never stop teasing him if he found out - and Foggy Nelson knew that he would find out. The world just hated him in that way. Although, apparently, the world hated the man he was all but dragging even more, and Foggy kind of regretted dropping the poor man on the floor as soon as he entered his apartment but one look at the blood that was going t be hell to clean up made him feel significantly less guilty.

He did not get paid enough for this, and it was certainly not a thing for lawyers like him to deal with. It seemed like more of an Avengers thing, 'maybe I can call the Avengers... Hey, is this the Avengers? Yeah, there's some guy bleeding all over my floor that I had cleaned yesterday. Please remove him,' Foggy thought as he sought out the first aid kit he was certain he kept in his bathroom. 'On the other hand, I also don't want to deal with the media swarming the poor guy, that's ruining my goddamn floor, which is certain to happen if I call in the resident superhero's,' he counter-argued his previous thought process after having found the first aid kit.

After a quick google search, and having a look at the shallower-than-he-first-thought cut that was the source of the bleeding. The mans shirt was already pretty badly torn around the wound so Foggy could keep it on the guy as he applied pressure to the cut - after washing his hands to avoid spreading more germs into the wound. He wasn't exactly an expert, not by any stretch of the word, but Google told him that it didn't need stitches and Foggy trusted google. It had never lied to him before and had saved him during many 2am study sessions during his university days.

He picked up the man once the bleeding had slowed down, figuring that he would feel guilty leaving him to lay on the floor, he moved him over to his cream sofa before grapping his phone and ordering take-out - he made sure to order extra in case his unexpected guest woke up. Twenty minutes later someone loudly nocked at his door, after quickly glancing at the man on his couch to make sure the noise hadn't awoken him, he grabbed his wallet and went to pay for his food.

It was another twenty minutes later that his no-longer-bleeding guest woke up, and immediately fell of the couch.

"Hey, the couch is for sitting, or laying, on not for falling of dude," he quipped before feeling bad for the stranger, who was waving his arm around like he was feeling up the room, and going to help him up.

It was after a few seconds of being on the couch - and conscious - that the strange man spoke. His voice suited the man perfectly and seemed to complement his brown hair and slightly glassy eyes - that sort of creeped him out the way they stared to intensely at a spot behind his left shoulder - in a way that was almost impossible. "Thank you," he had said, his voice as stiff as his body, before sinking into the couch behind him.

"No problem, but do you," Foggy paused, seeming to consider what he was going to say, "no, wait sorry, that's rude. What I meant to say was my names Foggy, what's yours?"

"Don't remen'er, think it began with an 'm' though," the man replied and Foggy frowned. How didn't this man remember his own name?

"Well, can I call you Mike? Actually no, that's a bad idea I hated Mike, my collage roommate, how about...Michael? Or Mark," the man nodded, "Mark? Okay then Mark, you feeling okay? Not dizzy? Google says that its kinda bad if you feel dizzy..." Foggy trailed off, he knew absolutely nothing about anything medical-y beyond what he got told in school about what to do if someone passed out, got a burn, or had a nosebleed. And surprisingly that knowledge had never been useful in his life before, nor was it at that moment. 'Why couldn't we go more in depth in first-aid class, it would've helped right about now!' he yelled inside his head.

"I feel fine, my throat 's a lit'le dry," Mark reluctantly whispered, his blank gaze shifted from Foggy's shoulder to the ground. Before focusing on his chin, or he thought he was looking at his chin, it was hard to tell when his eyes where always glassy.

 

"Okay buddy, I'll go get you some water, don't go anywhere!" Foggy called from halfway across the room and practically already at his kitchen.

It was ten minutes after Foggy had given Mark the water that he finally breached to topic on why the hell Mark was bleeding in a bloody dumpster. He relly wished he hadn't brought it up.

"I... I escaped from somewhere, I got hurt on the way out... I, didn't notice it until I had crawled into a, your, dumpster. Although to be fair, I didn't know it was yours," Mark had reluctantly stuttered out, his muscles tense and his face was so expressive that Foggy shivered in fear at whatever it was that Mark was reliving.

He really didn't want to ask. "Where... no who were you escaping from?" But he asked anyway. 

"H..." Mark started to say the name before cutting himself of. He had flinched, an honest to god full body flinch, and he had only muttered the first letter. Foggy hated whoever had did this to the man in front of him, he resented whoever made him so afraid. And that made Foggy scared, he had never hated someone he had never met before yet at the slightest sign of distress from Mark, although he wasn't really Mark and those monsters had made him forget his own name, and he was sent into an - almost - murderous rage. Not for the first time Foggy cursed himself for asking a question that made someone uncomfortable, despite the fact that asking it was necessary.

"Don't worry buddy, you don't need to tell me if you don't want to," Foggy said his mouth dry but unwilling to leave Mark alone to get himself a drink of water. He also didn't trust himself to not throw up if he did end up getting a drink.

"Thank you," Mark whispered so softy and so honestly, his voice hitching due to the unshed tears that Foggy could see in his eyes, that it broke Foggy's heart. Who ever Mark had escaped from had obviously not been okay with the man not telling him things that Foggy even suggesting the idea that he didn't need to tell him the name of the monsters that did this to him seemed impossible.

Foggy really wanted to kill whoever had hurt Mark. That scared him, he wasn't a violent person yet he wanted to hurt these people so badly that is honestly terrified him.

"It's fine buddy, you okay? You look tired," Foggy said as a way to steer the conversation away from a subject that was obviously making Mark uncomfortable - and it was also, to be perfectly honest, making him feel both uncomfortable and slightly sick.

"Yeah," his voice hitched once again as he held back his tears, "I'm pretty tired," Mark admitted.

"Okay, well get some rest... you okay on the couch?" Foggy asked, because that was polite and Foggy Nelson was a polite person and not because he didn't want to leave Mark to deal with his demons alone. He had noticed that Mark had dogged the 'are you okay' part of his question, and whilst Foggy knew that Mark wasn't okay he needed him to admit to that, to acknowledge that no he wasn't okay, and that worried him.

"Yes, I'm fine here,... on the couch," Mark replied, yawning into his hand before laying down and starting to drift off into sleep. Foggy smiled before going to get a blanket for him, the fluffiest and softest he could find, and carefully laying it on top of Mark so that he didn't disturb him. He barely succeeded, Mark had almost woken up from his much needed sleep when he was seconds away from dropping the blanket altogether.

He carefully walked to his bedroom, making sure to avoid all of the creaky floorboards, as he walked to the kitchen to get that drink of water. He smiled briefly at the sight of Mark in a seemingly, and surprisingly, peaceful dream as he walked to his bed room. After getting into the softest pyjamas that he owned - because he deserved it after the day that he had - and lay in his bed, drifting between being awake and being asleep, with only one thought on his mind:

'This is definitely a problem for the Avengers.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop. I just really love Foggy Nelson. 
> 
> I always appreciate criticism! Anyway thanks for reading.


	3. Wow, I probably should've stayed inside my house.

It was a normal day and Foggy's alarm clock ringed at exactly seven am. The birds that always sat atop his apartment chirped annoyingly and the woman that lived directly below him was screaming at her son, telling him to wake up for school. A boring day, just like any other.

He woke up to find absolutely nothing out of place. No weird noise, no huge mess on his floor, no strange smell that wasn't take-out (he couldn't cook anything except the fundamental food of collage students- Ramen and tinned soup - which he found amusing because he often spoke of running of to become a butcher) or his laundry detergent that normally stunk up his entire apartment for days at a time. He really needed to change the brand he used, even if the next brand stunk up his whole apartment it would certainly smell better than the one he had now. Washing his clothes in urine would make them smell better than the cheap off-brand detergent that he used.

So everything was normal, except for the sleeping man on his couch. Something which Foggy should probably do something about but he hadn't had breakfast (or his morning coffee) yet and couldn't be bothered dealing with a complicated issue before being at least 60% awake. It was only after pouring himself a bowl of cereal, and eating it, and making a cup of coffee, which he took into his living room, that Mark had woken up. (And that he realised that yes, the man on his couch was meant to be there.)

The man had groaned into his hands as he rubbed his face sleepily, yet he was more awake and alert than Foggy had ever been in his life. Which he promptly ignored in favor of falling into his seat with a loud sigh and a declaration of how amazing coffee was. He really didn't want to deal with the implications that Marks always-alert vibe caused him to think about. He didn't really want to think about how anything though. So he went to take a sip of his steaming hot drink, when he was interrupted - once again - by the all-to familier voice of his not-quite-roommate.

Mark had, apparently, never had coffee before so Foggy had shoved his into the man who-hadn't-truly-lived hands and demanding that he take a sip.

He couldn't tell if introducing him to coffee was a good idea, or the worst idea possible. Mark seemed to love coffee; but he seemed to love it too much and refused to give Foggy is coffee back. Meaning he had to get up and make a while new coffee.

Before long empty coffee mugs sat on the table beside them and Foggy had to go to work. Which he was not against complaining about to Mark, because who wouldn't complain about LZ (as he had so fondly dubbed it whilst drunk and trying to remember the firms name)? He also refused to make another cup of coffee, unsure of what the caffeine would do to his... friend... no, his acquaintance.

So after telling Mark what was where in the appartment, he left to deal with idiot co-workers. Which was, obviously, his dream thing to do on a Friday morning.

Work was the same as always. It was both boring, to the point where he considered banging his head against the wall until late he died, and amusing due to the stuck up, rich-boy attitude that most people in his work had. But he couldn't wait to get home, and have another coffee because he was not awake enough to deal with someone not knowing how often use the copier and then calling for his help. Admittedly, he was never awake enough to deal with anyone in the firm.

(Marci was an exception. Marci was always an exception, something she loved teasing him about.)

So yes, his day was uneventful.

He took the short way, not wanting to find any injured men in dumpsters that day or deal with the people who where probably looking for his friend, and practically flung himself into the elevator, wanting to get home as soon as possible. Once he reached his floor he calmly walked - at a relativly fast pace - to his apartment number not wanting to make Mark worried but not wanting to spend to much time outside when he could be helping his new-found roommate. He didn't usually worry about people so much, but Mark had that... handsome wounded duck thing going on and he looked so sad and helpless that Foggy found himself feeling guilty whenever he wasn't helping the man.

As Foggy walked into the apartment he found nothing out of place, except the fact that everything had been tidied away. Well the mugs had been washed and last night's take-out binned, but the apartment was tidier than it was when he left it. Mark was sitting on the couch, the blanket from the previous night folded beside him, listening to music and Foggy breathed out a small sigh of relief. Mark had been fine on his own, and there wasn't anything to worry about. Foggy let out a sigh of relief and dropped his work satchel beside his front door before joining Mark on the couch.

"So, how was your day?" Foggy asked to break the silence that shrouded the two men.

"Fine," Mark said, wincing as he moved a little too quickly.

"Hey, do you want me to take a look at your wound for you?" He asked, already moving towards Mark to check his injures, "Oh, and we could, like, get you a blood test? To find out your real name? I mean, if you want," He paused, noticing a cut that hadn't been there before, "if that's even how blood tests work."

"Sure, Foggy, but really I'm fine. I'm used to it, this is nothing," Mark said, squirming away from Foggy as the other tried to inspect his new cut.

"How'd you get this?" Foggy asked, sounding concerned and scared for Mark. Unfortunately, Mark hadn't heard those emotions from someone that wasn't him in a long time and mistook them for anger - the thing he wad most familiar with.

He looked down before muttering a small, "I'm sorry," and flinching away from Foggy's gentle hands that where still inspecting the cut.

Foggy's hands dropped to his sides instantly after feeling Marks full-body flinch. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself, even though he had no idea that Mark would react to his question that way. He spent what seemed like hours fumbling over his words, but it was probably only seconds, before he managed to choke out "Hey, Mike, it's okay. Look why don't we just listen to the news whilst I clean this cut out? Okay?"

Mike just nods his head and changed the radio=station onto a news station whilst Foggy uses google to figure out if Mike needs stitches (and thus, has to go to the hospital) or if he doesn't. Luckily, it turns out that he doesn't need stitches, and they sit in silence whilst Foggy cleans the cut with the radio a faint noise in the background. Until something catches his attention.

"Karen Page, released from prison after yet another attempt on her life only days ago had this to say about the break in at her apartment:

"Two men had broken into my apartment, they where waiting for me and they would've killed me if this man hadn't stopped them. The man, the.. the one that saved me, he wore a mask which, like the rest of his outfit, was black. He crashed through my window and saved my life. If you are out there, listening to this, thank you."

It apperes that there is a new hero in town, and who knows, maybe he wound cause as much damage to our streets as the Avengers did." The radio presenter said, in her insanely fake happy voice.

Foggy finished cleaning the cut on Marks side and got up to bin the now bloody cotton-bud-like-thing (he could never remember the name for them) before washing his hands. On his way back to the living room he tripped over Marks bag, that wasn't lying there that morning, and accidently emptied the contents out.

A black mask landed beside his feet. Foggy felt himself stop breathing for a moment, there was no way that the injured man, the man that was on the run, was the masked hero that had saved Karen Pages life. Yet Foggy could feel himself reach down and grab the mask before marching into his living room, waving it around like a mad man.

"What is this?" He shouted, hardly feeling guilty at Marks small - yet noticeable - flinch at the change in volume.

"It, uhm, sounds like fabric?" Mark asked, unsure about what was happening.

"Damn right it sounds like fabric. It's a mask, your mask! Now unless you're into some kinky stuff in the sheets it sounds like you are the man that saved that woman." Foggy yelled, unsure why he was furious - Mark had saved someone's life and he was treating him like a bad-guy.

"I'm sorry, was saving her the wrong thing to do?" Mark asked, voice once again sounding so small and faint and unsure that it made Foggy reconsider his actions, and the way the other man curled in on himself - as if expecting to be struck - made Foggy's heart break and fill with guilt simultaneously.

"No, no, saving her was defenetly the right thing to do. God, it was the right thing to do! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you, I'm just annoyed that you didn't tell me and that you went out when injured," Foggy said, voice laced with guilt and sadness, before dropping the mask and placing his hand on Marks shoulder. The mask could wait, Mark couldn't.

Mark flinched away from the touch as if he was burned. He stuttered out apology after apology and curled into an even smaller ball, broken sobs tore through his thin body - he unsuccessfully tried to silence them and stop the flow of tears. Foggy felt sick with guilt, sick with the knowledge that he had reduced his friend to this.

"No. You have no reason to be sorry, I'm sorry. You, you, did the right thing, I was the bad guys here. I'm so, so, sorry," Foggy whispered, but to Mark it felt like he was shouting, fighting to keep his own tears in his eyes. He wasn't successful and was soon sobbing alongside his friend - who was still curled up into a ball.

It's funny how a day could start so normal, so utterly boring, yet end in a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you everyone that has left Kudos/comments on this fic.
> 
> Anyway criticism is always appreciated!


	4. Our hometowns in the dark

The weather was nice, and the sounds of bird chirping was being drowned out by how busy the city was, even in the early hours of the day. People driving to and from work, or school whilst others waited on their early buses, listening to music that was far too loud or chatting to uninterested friends. People walking around, some on their way to work and taking business calls whilst others stumbled home drunk after a night of partying. The drunks where the loudest, yelling profanities and nonsensical phrases every two seconds, loud enough that most of the city could probably hear them. The commotion of the outside world woke the man asleep in an unfamiliar (yet all too familiar) apartment.

Although he could still hear the birds, despite the city trying to drown the chirping out.

He woke up on the couch, Foggy's couch, with a small yawn and immediately stretched his - somewhat stiff - limbs. Which was when he realised there was another person asleep on the couch, or there had been before he kicked them off. Flinching in fear, yet keeping a calm exterior, he walked over to the body that lay on the ground.

The noise of the city had faded to a faint buzz, not quite an annoyance yet not a source comfort. It was simply there, both focusing him and causing distraction. It was almost hypnotic in the way that he couldn't help but focus on it and still manage to ignore it simultaneously, and 'Mark' found himself wondering if that was a paradox or not.

"Morning," he said sheepishly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. It worked as Foggy only huffed good naturedly before sitting up, separating his face from the carpet.

"Mornin' Mark," Foggy replied after standing up and making his way towards the kitchen. He needed his coffee. They both needed coffee.

"Do you have work today?" 'Mark' asked, hoping the other would say no. For some reason 'Mark' found himself enjoying the blonds company. He wasn't afraid of the blond, despite what had happened the previous day and the amount of times he flinched but that was just instinct, so 'Mark' hardly counted it.

"Nope, I'm gonna call up some people I helped on a case once and see if they can help you out... if that's okay?" Foggy said nervously, waiting for 'Marks' approval, whilst making two cups of coffee. Both black coffees, it felt appropriate and they would need them for what was about to come.

'Mark', of course gave him it immediately. He was desperate to find out about his past, about who he actually was. "Who are these people?" he asked cautiously, still weary of upsetting Foggy after the events of the night before because whilst he wasn't afraid of Foggy he was scared of him leaving.

"The Avengers, or rather I'm calling Captain America. I helped their friend Bucky once, so they owe me a favour. Now is there anything that you should tell me so it doesn't surprise me later?" Foggy replied, his voice serious and leaving no room for arguments or lies.

"I cant see," 'Mark' replied bluntly, thinking it was better to just lay it on the table now. Like ripping a Band-Aid off - although he didn't know what that was like as he had never had a Band-Aid on in the first place.

Foggy just sighed, he had guessed that due to the... fogginess of 'Marks' eyes and his lack of light response. He had, however, been hoping that he was wrong. From what Foggy knew, not only was 'Mark' a solider (and had been one since he was a child) but a blind one, meaning that his training was probably even harder in order to 'make up' for his lack of sight.

"Okay, well lets get dressed and then we can call them, okay?" Foggy asked before going into his room and handing 'Mark' a pair of clothes as he walked towards the bathroom to get a shower.

After getting changed - and having breakfast, and Foggy finished his coffee - Foggy and 'Mark' sat on the couch preparing to call Steve Rodgers, the very person that Foggy mocked calling when he first found 'Mark'.

Steve picked up after two rings with a: "Steve Rodgers here."

"Hey, Steve, its Foggy. I'm hoping to cash in on that favour," he said, his palms sweaty and his voice anxious. 'Mark' stared blankly... at something, it was hard to tell what the man was looking at exactly.

"Can I ask why?" Steve asked, slightly out of breath from jogging - or running as normal people would call it.

"It's... he's... another Bucky case," Foggy answered carefully, making sure not to disclose more than what 'Mark' was comfortable with.

"I'll be at your apartment in an hour with the rest of the Avengers, okay?" Steve said, not waiting for a reply before he hung up.

Foggy sighed, "they'll be here in about an hour," he said to 'Mark' before letting his face rest in the palms of his hands.

The weather was nice. The city was overflowing with unrivalled life. Yet the mood of the outside world - bright, happy, joyful - did not match that of the inside of the apartment - anxious, stressed, dull - and somewhere (far away from the busy life of the city) birds could be heard chirping.

'Mark' liked the noise, it distracted him from the anxiety eating at his mind and the panic clawing at his stomach. The buzz of the city, the chirps of the birds, and the inhale and exhale of Foggy's breathing was calming - something he desperately needed before meeting new people, before talking about anything from his past.

He didn't know if he preferred being in the dark, he didn't know if he truly wanted to find out who he was before, because he would never be that person again. He was having second thoughts, but it was too late to change his mind.

He took a sip of his cold coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to say this but title (and all chapter titles up to this one) are from Twenty One Pilots songs.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Daredevil fanfic, I appreciate criticism. Foggy will be in the next chapter, yey!
> 
> ((I love Foggy so much))
> 
> I've wanted to write a Daredevil fic for years - I'm a huge comic fan - and my gf convinced me to actually do it.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading!


End file.
